


you made me a (believer)

by connanro-chan (noseybookworm)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon What Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm mostly ignoring nu52, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Boot Characterization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noseybookworm/pseuds/connanro-chan
Summary: Damian learned early on that failing in his duty meant rejection and abandonment.Written for day one of Batfam Week. Prompt: Family.





	you made me a (believer)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was heavily inspired by imagine dragons' song "believer".
> 
> thanks to elaienar for beta'ing!

Pennyworth frowned as he finished stitching up the long gash on Damian's side, disapproval clear on his face. Damian watched him out of the corner of his eye, ignoring the stabbing pain in his left shoulder where he'd been thrown against the floor. It had been a careless mistake--one that he should have been able to avoid. Drake had gone in unprepared, and Damian had needed to jump in before he had assessed the situation thoroughly. They had managed to complete their mission, at the very least. Which was why he was sitting in the Batcave, getting medical attention, instead of out on patrol with Father like he should be.

The typing sounds stopped, and the chair squeaked as Drake got up from the computer. He walked over to stand next to them while Pennyworth wrapped the bandage around Damian's ribs, pinning it securely in place before he allowed Damian to move.

"Damian," Drake said tiredly.

"Drake," Damian responded, looking up at him, letting irritation color his voice. It was his fault that Damian was here now. If he had been paying more attention he wouldn't have been knocked down, and then Damian wouldn't have had to jump in before they knew exactly how many thugs they were dealing with. His incompetence had nearly gotten them both killed.

His anger must have shown on his face, too, because Drake flinched back.

"I--" he started, before the growl of the Batmobile filled the cave, cutting him off. Pennyworth turned and looked as Father leaped out of the car.

"How bad is it."

Damian scowled. “I’m fine.”

Father looked questioningly at Pennyworth, who had removed the surgical gloves and was putting them in the dispenser. “Nothing life-threatening, sir,” he said, busying himself with the cleanup. “His injury required ten stitches, but the cut was clean and I detected no toxic materials in the wound.

Father was close enough now to inspect Damian himself.

“What were you _thinking_ ,” he demanded. Damian resisted the urge to flinch.

“I was _thinking_ ,” Damian spat, using his anger to put force behind his words, to crush the coiling fear in his stomach, “that I had to keep Drake from getting himself _killed_ so that we could complete the _mission_.”

“You could have gotten _yourself_ killed.”

“We had bad intel,” Drake interrupted. He was hovering nervously beside Pennyworth, shoulders curved inward. His fingers were twitching. “There were a lot more of them than we expected, and they were ready for us.” His gaze flicked to Damian before going back to Father. “He probably saved my life, Bruce.”

Damian huffed.

“You need to be better than this,” Father growled, and Damian was suddenly afraid, his heart plummeting into his stomach. He hadn’t failed. They had successfully destroyed the guns shipment. He hadn’t even used any deadly force.

What did he have to do to be good enough?

“I completed the _mission_ ,” he said angrily, standing up, his boots thudding forcefully on the floor. “What more do you _want?_ ”

His voice had risen to a yell without him meaning for it, and it echoed through the cave. Everyone stared at him in shocked silence. Tears of anger (fear) were pricking at Damian’s eyes, and he felt a sudden burst of shame. He should be better than this. He’s the son of Batman. He’s--

Father reached up and pushed his cowl down. He looked oddly vulnerable, now that his face was more than the tense, angry line of his mouth. He seemed almost--afraid.

“I want you safe,” he said, his voice softening. He put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Even through the gauntlet it felt warm, comforting, secure. “I can’t lose you.”

The _again_ went unsaid.

 

* * *

 

The office was quiet, cool, the late evening light streaming through the large glass windows when Damian entered through the ventilation shaft. His target sat at the large modern desk, completely occupied by the information on the laptop that was in front of her. The office floors were covered in a thick carpet, making Damian's silent approach even more effortless than the last. He could not afford to be careless. He would not fail his duty again.

The target shifted, and he froze. She leaned back in the chair, and gave a tired sigh. Her eyes were closed now, her neck exposed. For a moment, Damian hesitated. He was suddenly reminded of the rabbit he had once found in the courtyard, sleeping, completely unaware of the danger it faced, being in an Al Ghul stronghold. The sun had glinted off of its soft, brown fur. He had hesitated then too, when his trainer instructed him to kill it, and he had ached for days afterward with the consequences of his disobedience. His eyes narrowed. He could not afford such weakness now.

He moved, and in an instant, his knife had neatly cut through her throat, severing the artery as well as her thorax. Her eyes shot open on reflex as he delivered the stroke, but it was too late to call for help. The only noise in the office was the rasping of her throat, the gurgling of the blood pouring down her torso, staining her impeccable lavender suit an ugly red, pooling on the white carpet underneath her chair. It would take seven seconds for her heart to pump the rest of her blood out of the gaping wound.

Damian wiped his knife carefully, and stowed it in its sheath.

The sun was starting to set now, and he glanced out the window as he moved back to his point of entry. Its red light reflected off of the skyscrapers that stood in the central part of Seoul, painting them red like the target's blood. He entered the ventilation shaft, quietly securing the grate behind him. He had seven more targets to eliminate before he could return home. His backup was still hours away, checking the last location. Damian took a deep breath.

He would not fail his family.

 

* * *

 

Damian got up, ignoring the hand that Cain offered him. "Again."

Cain frowned at him, but settled into her fighting stance. Damian watched for a second as she seemed to relax, then burst into action. He feinted left, then dove under her guard, turning at the last second to strike at her kidneys, only to find his feet being swept out from under him. He managed to land correctly, at least, but his balance was still off when Cain renewed her attack, forcing him on the defensive. He blocked a kick, then ducked and rolled as she swung a fist toward his chest, coming up behind her.

There was a movement to the left of the training mats, and Damian’s eyes flicked over to identify its source. Grayson was standing there, observing them. His concentration shattered, and he faltered before realizing that he needed to move before Cain took advantage of his distraction. It was too late. She turned, rapidly, and caught his arm as he belatedly tried to throw a punch, twisting it and forcing him to the floor. He laid there for a moment panting before Cain released him and bounced to her feet. There was no indicator that this had been their twelfth spar in under an hour--she’d not even broken a sweat yet.

“Good work, Dami!” Grayson called out from behind him. He walked over to the edge of the training mats. Cain grinned cheerfully at him, and he ruffled her hair affectionately. Damian stood stiffly, trying not to show how sore and tired he was. Patrol had been hard last night, and Cain hit hard. The embarrassment from letting himself be taken down so easily caught up with him, and Grayson’s easy praise and his ignoring Damian’s obvious failure wasn’t easing the tension he felt. He knew how his old trainers would have reacted to him making a foolish mistake like that.

“I let myself get distracted, and it cost me the match,” he said derisively. “I don’t see how that could possibly be _good work_.” He waited for his remark to hit its mark, for Grayson’s face to darken in anger at his insubordination.

It didn’t. He simply looked puzzled, his brows furrowing. Cain turned to look at him, her earlier cheerful expression fading. His heart clenched painfully.

“You do realize that even _Bruce_ has--had trouble taking Cass down,” Grayson said. “You did incredibly well to last that long when you’re obviously tired.”

Damian flushed angrily.  “I should have done _better_.”

“You did the best you could,” Grayson said kindly. “And it’s enough.” He laid his hand reassuringly on Damian’s shoulder, and for once the physical touch was--comforting.

 

* * *

 

Damian stood at the ready, sword poised, keeping his breathing even and calm. The sun beat down on his shoulders, and he was keenly aware of his grandfather's presence at the edge of the courtyard, felt his sharp gaze as he shifts his stance, waiting for the soldier's attack. His side still ached from a blow he'd failed to block, and he could feel that the stitches in his left shoulder had ripped open. His blood was hot and sticky against his skin in the sultry September heat. He shifted again, raised his blade higher.

 _Focus_.

The soldier leaped forward suddenly, swinging her sword down toward Damian's left side. He parried swiftly, knocking her sword backward as he moved in, trying to get close enough that she wouldn't be able to attack effectively. He was too slow--the heat, the fatigue and the pain were making his movements sluggish, and she moved out of the way before he was in range. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he abruptly changed direction, moving under the swing of her sword and slashing at her face. She dodged with ease, and he was forced back a few steps, trying to block a barrage of blows.

The fight had gone on too long. Damian should have been able to end it within the first few seconds, but his pain ( _weakness_ ) had allowed his opponent to gain an advantage over him. He should be better than this. He could feel his grandfather's disapproving stare on his back as he and the soldier circled each other, their feet kicking up puffs of dust.

He had to end this _now_.

Damian attacked first this time, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the stiffness of his ribs as he dashed forward, anticipating the swing of her sword, He blocked it, then twisted his blade and pushed down, forcing her to loosen her grip and stumble backward, leaving herself completely open. He struck, hard, and landed a blow to her stomach before knocking her sword completely out of her hand as he moved forward.

She froze, his blade at her throat. The dust around their feet slowly settled. Damian was breathing heavily as he stepped back and sheathed his sword. It was only after they bowed, signifying the end of the fight, that he turned to face his grandfather.

Damian's heart sank as he saw Grandfather's turned back, his cape fluttering as he walked away. He had failed. He wasn't good enough. It was only his years of training that kept him from collapsing on the spot. He held his head high and walked away, trying to crush his disappointment and fear.

He had to do better. He was Damian Al Ghul, son of Talia, grandson of Ra’s himself. He had to live up to their name. He needed to be _worthy_ , to prove himself their heir. He held his shoulders straight, ignoring the shame of his failure, and clenched his fists. He _would_ do better next time.

Next time.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t had time to process what it meant earlier--that Grayson had come after him, saved him, after Damian had abandoned him, declared himself a solo entity. He'd saved him.

Damian didn't understand why.

All his life, he'd had to work so hard to earn his family's trust, to be worthy of their name, and this man--this pretender, who wore his father's cowl and forced him to work against his nature, against his entire upbringing--had saved him, when Damian had failed, had gone against his wishes, had betrayed his loyalty.

He was quiet on the ride back to the bunker, and Grayson didn't try to make him talk. It was only when they'd been patched up by Pennyworth--Damian's face was mildly burned, and the skin on his knees was torn--that he tried to confront him.

Grayson was at the computer, presumably typing up a mission report, when Damian approached him. He looked weary, his eyes shadowed and his usual energy absent. When Damian stopped near the chair, trying to keep his mask of surety on, he looked up.

"What is it, Robin?"

Damian frowned at him. "Why did you save me? I left you. I renounced my loyalty to you. There was no reason for you to come after me."

Grayson looked bewildered. "What do you mean?"

How bluntly would Damian have to put this for him to understand? He had left. He had disobeyed orders knowingly. He had betrayed his duty, betrayed the only connection to Father that he had left. "I _left_ you," he repeated. "I abandoned you and your principles. I declared myself a solo entity. You should not have saved me."

Grayson's look of confusion was slowly turning to something like horror. "Damian," he said cautiously, turning to face him fully. "That's not how family works.”

Damian scoffed. “Family is _duty_ , Grayson,” he said. “Not that _you_ would understand.”

An emotion flickered across Grayson’s face too fast for Damian to identify.

“Family isn’t just duty,” he said slowly. “It’s about love, and trust. You don’t just give up on family and abandon them.”

That was absurd. All Damian's life he had suffered for his family, killed for them. He had done his duty, and they had thrown him away as soon as he made a choice for himself. He hadn’t been good enough for them, and they had discarded him like a worn out tool, a broken weapon.

“ _He_ didn’t trust me,” Damian snarled. “Mother didn’t even--she had _backups_ in case I ever _failed_ her. She cut me off as soon as I chose Father over her. And Father chose Drake over me, his blood-son. He _abandoned_ me. Is _that_ family?”

Grayson’s eyes widened. “Damian, that’s not--” he began, then cut himself off. “Bruce didn’t choose Tim over you. He loved you.”

“Then why didn’t he trust me?” Damian demanded, trying to sound angry, and failing. He clenched his fists. “Why did he always look at me like I was a--a _disappointment_ . He never _wanted_ me. He _chose_ you.” To his shame, his voice cracked on the last word.

Grayson stood up, placed both of his hands on Damian’s shoulders. Damian didn’t try to shrug them off, and stared at the floor, ignoring the tears in his eyes. “Don’t try to lie to me,” he whispered.

“Hey.” Grayson shifted a hand to the back of Damian’s neck. “Look at me, Dami.”

Damian scowled, resisted the urge to scrub the tears from his eyes. Grayson’s hands were steady. He looked up, trying to maintain some kind of control over his expression.

“I trust you,” Grayson said, looking at him steadily. “I gave you _Robin_. I won’t take that away from you.” He pulled Damian into a hug, wrapping his arms around him. Damian stiffened, then relaxed, and let his head fall onto Grayson’s shoulder. His face was wet, but he ignored the tears and let Grayson hold him.

It almost felt like family.


End file.
